


An Intergalactic Guide To Letting Go

by Astarloa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Community: spnspiration, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hauling metric tonnes of raw metal ‘round the system isn’t anyone’s idea of a dream job, but Dean likes it okay. Well, he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Intergalactic Guide To Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Boysinperil in Spnspiration's April Fool’s Challenge on LJ. Prompt: Dean-centric gen, fire in the hole.

_That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean. Can't fill it, can you?_ \- Famine, My Bloody Valentine

 

“Mars Base II, this Casimir 15. Over.”

Dean holds his breath and listens. 

Zzzzsss – click, click – ssszzzZssszzz – click.

Static whispers through the comm system, teasing at the possibility of connection. He taps out a pattern on the control board and changes the frequency, gives it another try, more out stubbornness than with any real expectation of an answer. 

Baby’s an ugly beast of a ship, even on the best of days, but she always does what he asks, eager to please. He appreciates it and returns the favour by treating her like a fancy pleasure shuttle rather than a third-generation hauler with some serious repair work going on.

Dean thought they’d reached an understanding and it hurts to realise that, yeah, maybe not so much. Still, he hates seeing her like this. 

‘Course he’s not exactly thrilled about his own situation, either.

He sighs and pushes away from the controls, drifts over to the observation window. It’s still there, maybe a little bigger than the last time he checked; clouds of reddish-pink gas spiralling around a black core, an empty heart pulling the universe in and refusing to let go, trying to kick-start a beat. He’s seen pictures before, they all have, but the reality is something else. His pulse speeds up, hammering fast and heavy. There’s a reason people have always been scared of the dark and he’s looking at it: Newtonian physics locked in a cage fight with quantum mechanics where none of the punches fly right. 

Static crackles in the background, and then “ – Mars Base II. Over.”

Dean jerks at the muffled words. He grabs a handful of loose wires on the ship’s ceiling and drags himself forward, hauls ass back to the controls. His fingers shake as they press down on the receiver, flick the switch. 

“Hey, Bobby. S’good to hear your voice.”

“Don’t you _hey, Bobby_ me, boy. Want to tell me what kind of damn fool mess you’re in this time?”

There are all kinds of things Dean could say to that, although most of them wouldn’t mean much; or more than he’s comfortable with on an open channel, which amounts to the same thing in the end. 

“Casimir 15, this is Mars Base II. Do you copy?”

Dean clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Go ahead, sir.”

“What the hell is going on up there?” Bobby asks in a voice more cranky than usual, anger papered over worried cracks. “HUDs dropped out five hours ago and I got one pissed off customer on my back, asking ‘bout delivery.”

“Ship was hit by a radiation storm,” Dean says, running a hand across one of the data displays. His mouth feels dry. “Bad one. Knocked out the thrusters and most of the electrics.“

“Dammit! Cargo still good?”

“Yeah, but –“

“Right, I’ll get things rolling on this end. Patch through your co-ordinates and I’ll pull a few strings, send Garth out with a salvage vessel. He ain’t exactly the brightest star in the sky, but –“

“Bobby! Listen, the storm, it’s…“ Dean trails off, not sure what to say now the moment’s arrived, unwilling to make it real. 

_Suck it up, Winchester, do your job._

“Sir, reporting a Grade Five Event in Orion Quadrant X-1. Current drift speed one hundred and five clicks, increasing at a rate of three-point-six. Trajectory estimates have the ship crossing the horizon at fourteen hundred.”

He huffs out a brittle laugh.

“It’s a black-fucking-hole, Bobby. I’m screwed.” 

There’s a beat of silence, followed by the sound of Bobby cursing and something smashing with a splintering thud. Static squeals through the comm like a pig in its death throes and a voice heavy with reverb yells, “Jesus, get Singer out of here.”

*

They get an audio lock on the ship and set up some kind of shift rotation, Dean’s not too clear on the specifics; only that there’s someone talking to him, waves of noise and small memories that crackle and hiss through the cabin, rise and fall. It keeps him steady, anchored in place by invisible wires. Sooner or later the tether will snap and he’ll start a final free fall, drop down into the glassy black, but whatever. There’s nothing to be done about it, so he’s fine.

Or at least, that’s the unspoken agreement they’ve all reached, the collective lie.

“Any luck tracking Sam down?” Dean asks, trying for casual. He stares blankly at the manifest pinned to the ship’s wall and pulls in a deep, shaky breath, tells himself not to read too much into Benny’s voice, the slight hesitation before he answers. The connection’s all messed up; it’s just the static. 

“We’ll get him here, Brother. Gotta say, the Higher Ups weren’t too thrilled about giving a Seeker access to the facility, but Bobby threatened to blow the whole place outta orbit if they didn’t let the kid in. Old Man’s just crazy enough to do it, too.”

“Good call,” Dean says. “Not as stupid as they look, then.”

“Yeah, I reckon not. How’s your pressure holding up?”

“Uh, I’m reading a little over nine.”

“Roger that. I need you to vent down to six, nice and slow.”

Dean studies the gauge controls in silence, struggling with protocols he should be able to recite backwards. And he can, he’s totally got this. It’s just…his stomach churns. If he screws up now it’s all over, and that it’s all over anyway only makes the _now_ matter more. 

“Want me to read the procedure up to you?” Benny asks, and there’s something gentle in his voice that sets Dean’s teeth on edge, like he’s trying to soothe down a wild animal, the kind they used to have back on earth.

Dean grunts, “Nah, I’m good. Standby.” 

He swallows and reaches for the board, lets his fingers start dancing over the controls, cautious at first and then faster, more certain, wringing out notes made of psi. The caution lights give a petulant flicker as a shudder ripples through the ship, the low groan of distressed metal echoing inside his head. 

_Don’t think about it._

“So, um, Sam’s gonna be pretty pissed,” Dean says, mostly to himself, keeping his eyes fixed on the data readings. “He’s never been a fan of the Enclaves. Found himself a sponsor and bought his way out as soon as he could, never looked back. Wanted me to go with him, but man, wasn’t my thing. Couldn’t see myself fetching much of a price on the market and ‘sides, there was my Dad and all…I dunno, though. Sometimes wish he’d asked me again.”

The ship gives a final, creaking jitter and settles back into stillness. 

Dean drops his head forward with sharp exhale. He’s so fucking tired. “Mars Base II, this is Casimir 15. Helium and O2 configurations look okay. Pressure holding steady at six, over.” 

“Roger that. You’re doin’ real good, Brother.”

He gives a mirthless smile that Benny can’t see and doesn’t answer, just sits for a few minutes and lets the crackle of static wash over him, picks at a loose thread on the sleeve of his jumpsuit. There doesn’t seem much left to say; only “What if Sam doesn’t –“

Benny cuts him off. “He’ll be here. There’s still time, you’re not goin’ anywhere yet.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, squeezing his eyes shut. He leans back in the patched, leather chair. “Yeah, okay.”

*

He loses track of the shift changes after a while, just waits until a new voice comes online and goes from there. Most of the voices belong to people he recognises, knows pretty well in a casual, _wanna get smashed_ kind of way. It could be worse. He pretends not to notice when they drift into uncomfortable silence or disappear altogether, submerged beneath the steady rise of dead air.

The silence stretches out longer this time. 

Dean listens to the sound of his own breathing, fingers tapping out a broken, manic drum solo against one thigh, until the comm finally powers back up and a woman’s voice drawls, “Hey, Winchester. Miss me?”

And god knows who he pissed off in a former life, ‘cause there’s the worse. 

Dean scowls. “Seriously? What, they didn’t have any drones available?”

“Don’t be like that, baby. It’s all part of the service. Cash upfront and I’m good to go.”

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. Yeah, that sounds about right. He wonders how much overtime the Company’s promised to pay and whether anyone would’ve shown up without it. Okay, so Bobby, that’s a given, and probably Benny too, although his friend won’t knock back the extra units if they’re offered. 

“Bite me,” he snaps.

A low chuckle echoes through the cabin. “Sweet talk like that’ll get a girl hot.”

And there’s one mental picture Dean could live without. He presses the heels of his hands against eyes that feel too hot and dry, wishing she’d go and knowing that he’d transfer every unit he’d ever saved to stop her from leaving if it meant that he wasn’t alone. And how pathetic is that?

“Hey, who knows?” she continues, “Maybe the goons got it right for once and you’ll find yourself living it up on the flipside. A delightful, parallel universe filled with cupcakes and rainbows.”

“No, I won’t,” Dean says. 

“No,” she agrees, suddenly serious. ”You won’t.”

“Okay, thanks for the chat. Not.” Dean hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck, and then asks, “You got an ETA on Sam yet?”

“He’ll be here.”

They keep telling him that and each time he believes it a little bit less. 

_Sam’s not going to come._

Panic slips its leash at the thought, crawls towards him and slips cold, skinny arms around his chest, pulls Dean in tight and close. He takes one rapid breath and then another, wondering where all the oxygen’s gone. There’s a voice calling his name in the distance, fading in and out, and it’s not the right one. 

“Hey, Winchester! Sing me a song.”

The command snaps him back to reality. “What?” 

“Sing me a song, space boy,” she insists. “I’m told you put on quite a show at last year’s Christmas party. Who’d have thought, tough guy like you belting out some old-time Taylor Swift. ”

“Fuck off, Meg.”

She laughs, rough and loud, and damn if he doesn’t smile back. Despite everything, he’ll miss that.

*

“Dean?”

He mumbles something, mostly asleep. “Five more minutes. S’too early.”

The voice repeats his name, louder now, sounding raw and breathless. 

Dean blinks and jerks in his chair, uncertain what woke him. The cabin’s illuminated by a nauseating, red glow and warning lights blink up at him from the control board, an electric carnival abandoned to the weeds. Dean pulls a face as a shiver slides through him, making his shoulders twitch, and fumbles with the strap wrapped around his waist. The restraint pops free and he pushes up with a grunt, stiff muscles protesting. 

His body feels heavy and hollow, both at the same time, as though he’s made of air and lead filled bones. 

There’s nothing left but random bursts of static.

Dean tries to ignore it at first, but soon finds himself listening anyway, hunting for ghosts in the machine. When he finally remembers the voice it’s all at once, hope exploding inside him hard enough to hurt. For a moment Dean stops breathing. He moves towards the comm system and adjusts the frequency.

_Please, please, please._

“Sam?”

There’s a high-pitched, crackling whine and then, “Dean!”

He grins, wide and bright. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Right, I’ll leave you two chuckleheads to it then,” Bobby says in the background. There’s the faint sound of footsteps and a door slamming shut. Bobby doesn’t say goodbye, but that’s okay, Dean gets it.

His mouth twists, excitement already fading. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

“You’re my brother,” Sam says, as though that’s the beginning and end of the matter right there. 

“Yeah.” 

It shouldn’t be this hard and Dean hates that it is, the easy back-and-forth they’d shared as kids dull and torn, curling ‘round the edges. They should be kicking back in a dive bar somewhere; downing shots that make Sam screw his face up and shudder, trying to escape the taste, while Dean laughs at him from the other side of the table, listing sideways.

“Uh, I – there’s some stuff I gotta say,” Dean starts uncertainly. He sighs, and then raises his chin. “You’ve done good, Sam. Don’t get me wrong; still think that Seeker cult you’ve fallen in with are a bunch of crazy eco-terrorists, but hell. Guess I don’t have to understand it, is what I’m saying. You’re doing what you think is right and – I’m proud of you.” 

A strange, snuffling noise filters through the static. 

It takes Dean a moment to recognise the sound, hasn’t heard it since his Dad’s funeral.

“Sammy, don’t. C’mon man, don’t do that.” Dean scrubs a hand across his face and lets out a long, slow breath, throat suddenly tight. “You’re gonna marry that girl of yours, you hear me? Have a whole tribe of kids and tell them stories about their awesome Uncle.”

“Like Batman, huh?” Sam asks wetly. 

“Damn straight.” Dean knows it’s not fair, that he shouldn’t ask, but the words force themselves out anyway. “Hey, Sam? Tell me everything’s gonna be okay.”

Zzzzsss – click, click – ssszzzZssszzz – click.

“ –ean?”

Dean curses under his breath and works frantically on the control board. “Sam?”

“ - can you – “…” – me? Dean?”…”- need to tell you –“…”- ean?!” 

There’s a sudden wave of white noise, and then nothing.

Dean keeps trying, repeating Sam’s name long after the signal dies, unable to let go. He doesn’t notice the moment that changes, only that he’s watching tiny droplets of water float through the silence, perfect and self-contained. 

They look like tears, as though someone was crying. 

Dean closes his eyes and lets himself drift, waiting for the bright, burning moment he becomes the singularity.


End file.
